


pull

by CrystalDen



Series: Impressions for a Dyad [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alderaanian Hair Braiding (Star Wars), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Hair Braiding, Hair Kink, Hair-pulling, Masturbation, One Shot, Possessive Ben Solo, Possessive Kylo Ren, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-13 18:27:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29033145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrystalDen/pseuds/CrystalDen
Summary: It’s just not fashionable.They tell her this as if she’s ever cared what they think or has ever been concerned about what’s en vogue.Some days she ties it back in three small buns.Some days she lets it fall in long, loose waves.She loves the feel of it as it caresses her shoulder blades.When his fingers plait the strands carefully, her stomach flutters in anticipation for when he’ll rope the tight braid around his hand.And pull.
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Series: Impressions for a Dyad [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2133822
Comments: 28
Kudos: 130





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**Author's Note:**

> Thank you @reylo_addict for the eyes ❤️

  
  
  
  


_It’s just not fashionable._

They tell her this as if she’s ever cared what they think or has ever been concerned about what’s en vogue.

Some days she ties it back in three small buns.

Some days she lets it fall in long, loose waves.

She loves the feel of it as it caresses her shoulder blades.

When his fingers plait the strands carefully, her stomach flutters in anticipation for when he’ll rope the tight braid around his hand.

And pull.

It’s her crown.

She rules here with him.

Her bare feet stretch and shuffle over the hardwood floors. She avoids the small notch where a nail sticks up. He doesn’t like when she tries to mend those things. She can, but he _wants_ to take care of it. He wants a life that people deem normal. He wants it all to make sense.

He comes home in the afternoon, the August heat leaving the collar of his suit dripping with sweat. His eager face is a sheen canvas. It’s the same time every day. He won’t find her at the door waiting. It’s the entrance that he craves, the way her hips sway and the soft curve of breasts greet him at his proximity.

Their kiss is often chaste, an open invitation for the events of the evening. 

“I’m home,” he says, as if she needed to hear it from his lips.

Her hair is down, a bit messy.

All through dinner, he watches her, their forks scraping the bone china that they received as a gift.

They clear the dinner table, and she stands barefoot, washing the small pile of dirty dishes, letting the suds cling to her arms and the front of her dress. It makes little rings of water linger on the fabric, some of them even cooling her flushed skin.

Her mind wanders, often, and sits in the armchair of memories they’ve made, holding them up and handling each one with care.

He found her one day. A little ragpicker.

Her face tan from the sun, her clothes worn, having sold the most desirable things from the pile.

_“Let your hair down for me, little one,” he said._

It was his imposing form paired with a soft smile, the large shell of ear poking out beneath dark locks.

_“Some say as dark as his soul.”_

She smiles into the little island of bubbles.

His clean exterior, polished and gleaming, he offered her a meal and a bath. She went without a care of whether it was proper or good, whether hell would swallow her where she stood. His little house had an extra room that she never occupied for long, never giving herself time to settle or call it home. Every day she fashioned plans to move on, and every day he had plans of his own. Clean clothes, a task in the house, and a desire for her company, to be at his side.

He descends from the upstairs, and she can feel his eyes on her.

She tosses her head back, loosening the strands of hair from sticky skin. He loves her in all of her ways, but on occasion, she likes to remind him. 

She wakes with need. She kisses him goodbye and longs for him, letting her hair become messy in the way that calls to him, that pleads with him to tame it.

The light breeze from the window blows in with blessed relief. It cools and chills the sweat on her body, eliciting goosebumps and peaked nipples. 

“Peach, your hair is a mess,” he says, his voice quiet.

She tries not to smile so openly, even if they are quite aware of this scene.

“Yes,” she says, keeping her voice measured and calm.

She glances back and then forces her eyes forward, taken with the sight of him. His tie and coat are a memory, his shirt unbuttoned at the top. His sleeves are rolled, revealing lean, twisting muscle. It’s enough to make her lower belly flop and her hips squirm, but the sight that truly makes her grip the earth, hangs in the loose straps of his suspenders swinging from his waist. The sound of them dusting his legs, the stretch of his body as he removes them from his shoulders. So accustomed to the noise, the feeling of anticipation after he returned from a long evening to climb in and hold her close in the dead of night.

“Think the storm will come around later,” she asks, drying the delicate rings of the plate. She dries her hands on the thin apron, turning to face and lean her hip against the counter.

The thin moments that dither between these words, the humid thick, and every glance is where they thrive before this divine communion. 

It’s accompanied by the gentle clink of cubes in iced tea as he takes a long sip, his eyes never leaving her as they nearly disappear into the glass. 

A little slice of lemon.

It sinks further to the bottom. He slips two large fingers inside, barely able to fit in the long glass, curling them to bring out the little citrus treat to his mouth.

She swallows at the sloppy suck of lemon and lips, a slight crinkle to the corners of his eyes as he pulls the tart juice into his mouth and lets the peel fall to the bottom of the glass.

“You must be tired,” he says.

She rids herself of her apron, lovingly placing it on the counter, stroking the small embroidered flowers placed there by her own hands. 

“I am a little tired,” she responds, stretching her palms flat and patting to command it to stay put.

He gives the glass a small shake to release the cubes from their place and glances upstairs before looking back at her.

“Maybe a bath then, Peach?”

They shut the little world down, hearing the snap of switches, sending the main floor into darkness, save the lamp to guide them at the top of the stairs.

He sets his wardrobe right as she runs the sponge over her limbs, taking care to scrub some of the musk of her scent away.

There is a semblance of privacy as he leaves her to wash, but he wanders in occasionally, and she finds that particular moment to arch and scrub, freeing the tips of her breasts from the water line for him to peruse at his leisure.

She dries herself carefully, setting a foot to the edge of the tub, enjoying the way her hips stretch and open her center to full view. The soft, pink skin of her frame is dry and draped with a soft ivory gown. Every aspect of her being stands at attention, clamoring for notice as she moves about, dressed for play.

The long, brown tangles down her back are a different story. She takes care to leave the mess, only stopping to blot the ends to keep the water from dripping down her back and run through the thin material.

He sits patiently at the edge of the bed when she enters, the silk moving and glancing across her nipples and the tops of her thighs as she walks.

He’s removed his dress shirt, and she can see the deep scar from his face as it extends into his collar and shoulder.

Rey sees the eyes of the people, the questions they attempt to bury there. Ben collects the whispers, always taking note of how they come close to the truth. 

They all fail spectacularly.

An automobile accident, an avid hunting hobby, a secret spy.

Even when they’re close, they’re wrong.

They’d never guess that she gifted it to him, or that he wears it proudly, his payment to possess her.

She knows the feel of it, the path it takes by heart, tracing the long line whenever he’s near. 

The simple band of gold on her finger is a show.

_Mine._

She smiles.

She possesses him, too.

The sun is setting beyond the trees, shining a sharp, gleaming ray into the bedroom and bouncing off the vanity mirror. The bed slowly creaks as his formidable frame rises and steps toward the plush stool.

The dressing table was a gift.

Settled across from where they rest each evening, her face greets her as she rises each morning.

He waits patiently, his suspenders swinging from the short distance.

She sits, far enough back to keep her knees from brushing the little brass knobs. 

She tries not to clutch the fabric of her garment as their eyes meet in the mirror, her breath hitching and recovering.

He reaches forward, his hand raking through the nest of wet hair. He’s not entirely gentle when his fingers catch, assessing her face as the motion tugs at her scalp and makes her wince from the quick sting. He pauses, challenging her, hopeful that she’ll resist. When she closes her eyes, her face the picture of serenity, she can hear his inhale. The dragon ready to burn. He continues, pushing little puffs of air our of her lips until a sharp yank drags the smallest cry from her throat.

“Peach, where’s your comb,” he asks, her head now cradled in his large palm.

She lifts her head and looks into his eyes through the reflection, handing him his favorite tool.

He combs the fine strands, dragging the teeth from scalp to the skin of her back. The engraved set sits waiting for its companion, the electric fan whirs, and the stream of light from outside is now met with a purple foundation of clouds.

Ben releases the comb back to its home and begins the process of separating the strands into sections.

Three.

Her breath picks up, and she begs her body not to sway.

He seeks simplicity tonight.

He’s eager.

She follows his movements, the way his eyes narrow on his task. He’s making quicker work of it than she anticipated, his practiced fingers moving the wet strands back and forth in a dance that lulls. She wants to slow the motion, letting her knees drift apart as she frees them from the fabric of her nightgown, moving it up the length of her calves and thighs.

He’s devoted to the work with his hands until her own fingers trail up and palms meet hips, knees spread wide to reveal her naked, pink core. 

It’s transcendent.

The way he looks at her, desires her, stirs.

All for her.

The way he looks to steal her away and keep her from feeding the fruit to anyone else.

She lifts her heels to give him an even better view, and she watches his grip on the rein tighten. The gown falls over the stool, trailing back and framing her tan legs and the wanton display in the mirror.

Her abdomen tightens, her moves careful.

She caresses her thighs, snaking a hand to the soft, full curls dusting the outside of her sex. Her chin lifts, her spine tingling with a sharp warning. She meets his reflection, the tilt of her chin emphasizing the defiance and fire deep within.

She whimpers as he pulls harder, her eyes fluttering shut and breathing with the motion of the electric fan.

Her fingers show him the way, stroking up and down, up and down on the lips. 

The braid, the strands, the soft skin of her face pull back. The need to sink back and fall into him is great, but the want of his willing participation is so much greater.

She walks her index finger to the ignition, the source of so much pleasure.

She circles, applying pressure in the way he so desperately craves to do, wanting to hold the key. There is a hint of the wetness waiting, and after the larger circles become tighter and smaller, she dips her fingers, moaning and exhaling in pleasure at the feeling of her body ready to receive.

It’s a steady climb, her hips jerk, her spine is liquid. 

He refuses to let her hide from him with her squirming.

“Look at my pretty Peach.”

She’s close, nearly slumping forward as her legs shake. Her foundation is crumbling, all pretense of power fading until he wraps the chain in the pocket between thumb and index finger, gently tugging. She’s arching and rolling her hips.

“Look, Peach.”

The sensations are consuming her, and she nearly falls away to nothing when she catches the picture of their reflection. Her lips, the quick succession of breath, and the light in the room, too bright.

She comes with her eyes shut tight and an even hum behind. 

His cock is pressed up against her back, his hand lazily slipping beneath the seam of her gown, toying and pinching a bud.

It’s easy to relax into him. There’s hardly another choice after she comes.

He leans forward crossing his arm across her heart, guarding and bringing her upright, legs tumbling over the little stool. It falls with a heavy thud. He never really lets her gain her footing, dragging her to the bed and pushing her down on her back.

He won’t take her from behind this time.

He spreads her knees apart, leaning forward to suck at her center for a painfully brief moment.

“Such a good Peach.”

The clink of his belt makes her squirm as he removes his cock with one hand and curls a finger inside his peach with the other.

Her hair, forgotten, is unraveling beneath and around.

He slides his cock through her folds, marveling at the wet sound.

The steady rhythm of their lives is something she holds close. It would be useless to accuse them of monotony. There’s nothing like that existing here in the safe confines of their home. The master of the house values her safety, her compliance, and the routine.

And she cares to break it.

It thrills her as he presses his cock in slowly, and she whines and nearly breaks into laughter from the heady feeling of triumph.

He hums and leans forward, thrusting with the same energy that he yanks on the reins to bring her to heel.

He’s simmering, his chest contracting and the muscles reacting to every thrust and push and sigh.

Her teeth nearly rattle, her breasts bounce, and she comes undone once again to the music of the room.

The electric fan, the slap of drapes against the hardwood, the creak and groans of the metal bed.

And as she comes down, she shudders at the light thud of suspenders hitting fabric.

She’s intoxicated by it all, reaching up to heaven.

He leans down, letting her run her hand over his scar and wrapping her legs to pull him close as he releases himself.

Sweat cools on limbs as the sweat of an empty glass drips onto the little oak vanity. The drapery hanging from the windows lifts higher, waving and twisting, wringing out the thick taste of sex in the air and letting it waft outside to the sky. There is a moment of calm, the fabric mirroring the soft sighs from the bed, two people left in surrender.

In the distance, the low roll of thunder promises to wipe the sting of heat away from the earth once more until the day comes and starts it all over again.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! ❤️
> 
> Other works:[CrystalDen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrystalDen/works)
> 
> Twitter:[@the_crystalden](https://twitter.com/the_crystalden)


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